I first visited Barcelona in 2012. Then, aged 20, I visited the city with wide-eyed wonder. Every street seemed to be imbued with a magic that I’d not yet come upon in my travels. Every attraction was somehow more special than those in France or Italy. Every person I met nicer, every metro ride funnier, every night out somehow perfect.

This past winter, I returned to Barcelona, after having not visited for over 8 years. Read on to find out more about my experience visiting this wondrous city a little older, possibly wiser, but no less enthusiastic.

Barcelona

**WHERE**: North-West Spain
**WHY**: Amazing architecture, beautiful culture, amazing food and wine
**TIME**: 3-4 nights minimum

My first visit to Barcelona occurred smack bang amidst a whirl-wind trip a mid-winter European backpacking adventure. You know the sort. 6 weeks of city-highlights, hard drinking, immeasurable visits to museums, monuments and churches, hopping on trains between countries, generally not appreciating the wonder of what’s about you. You know the sort. Capital cities, cheap beer, bad food. Notably, however, this auspicious holiday was occurring amidst the coldest winter Europe had had in over 15 years. The temperatures in Paris, Frankfurt and Amsterdam had been nigh on Arctic, leaving me and my friends nearly running from old church to yet another old church in search of succour. Not because I particularly enjoyed visiting churches, but because, it’s Europe; what the hell else are you supposed to do? Yet, by the time I reached Barcelona, I was burned out by the monument hopping, sick of the cold, and in desperate need of some exercise. At this stage in my ‘travel career',’ my interests ranged from skateboarding, going to shitty nightclubs, and ticking off ‘must-see’ monuments in every major city in Europe. In short, I was a 20 year old privileged Philistine (in my defence; I thoroughly enjoyed art museums).

However, Barcelona was an adrenaline short straight to my uncultured backpackers heart. here was a city that forced me to slow down. That forced me to sit still for a minute, take in something more than ‘another church,’ and pay attention. Looking back, I still can’t put my finger on why that was. Was it the excellent Paella that I ate immediately upon arriving? Was it that i was able to see the sun here for the first time in a month? Regardless of what it was, Barcelona was special, and I knew that from arrival.

My time in Barcelona in 2012 was spent doing the normal tourist things. I checked out Sagrada Familia, looked at the Gaudi houses, wandered Park Guell, and ate a hell of a lot of Paella. In fact, I’d say I nearly cleaned the city out of their favourite rice-bashed dish. Though it was cold, the sun shone every day, and every night, I’d be out at the worst nightclub or bar in the city, drinking with my friends, or trying to learn Spanish (at this stage I did not know that they spoke Catalan, rather than Spanish in Barcelona: like I said, Philistine.) Leaving Barcelona after only 7 short days there, I felt a sense of loss. Why was I so sad? I was catching a plane to Rome for heaven’s sake. Yet, I was sad to be leaving.

In the ensuing years, I travelled throughout South America, South East Asia, and through Australia. In part, my time spent travelling was inspired by Barcelona. If not for the spark that I felt in that city, I doubt that I would have been as motivated to spend 6 months searching for that same feeling in South America, or would have visited far-flung locations like Myanmar or Sri Lanka. I wanted to scratch the itch that Barcelona had left in me; what was it about this place that had made it so irresistible to me? What made it so special?

This past winter, I returned to Barcelona. The winter of 2019/2020 was considerably less harsh upon Europe than that of 2012. Yet, after an 8 year absence, I was still extraordinarily keen to return to Barcelona; my erstwhile favourite city in Europe/the world. This time, rather than travelling with friends, I was travelling with my partner Carlie (whom also writes on this blog, obviously). I’d spent months hyping up Barcelona to her, speaking of how fun it would be, how awesome she’d find it. On this trip, we were travelling slowly via campervan, and had been making our way through Spain over the past month. Mercifully, in the ensuing years since my last visit, my tastes had changed in travel, and I was now somewhat less inclined to see every single monument in town. Yet, upon arrival in Barcelona, I dragged Carlie to all of my old favourite haunts; Park Guell, House Botla, Sagrada Familia, and tried to find the same Paella spots that I’d eaten at last time. Yet, at each location, we were met by a horde of tourists, most of whom were engaged in that most vile of travel acts; posing for would-be fashion shoots at famous monuments for instagram. Naively; I was horrified. These attractions, which had once inspired such joy in me, now inspired nothing but fatigue and a desire to get away. 15 minutes in Park Guell was more than enough for me, 5 minutes in front of Sagrada Familia nearly inspired a panic attack, and the clustered metro system no longer felt special. What had changed? Where was the magic? I felt the hype I’d built for Carlie turn ashen; I’d dragged her to a tourist mecca.

Relief came when I stopped trying. A lesson that I’d already learned in South America (and reportedly needed to learn again), was hard won this time around. When I stoped trying to return to monuments, churches and bars that had once held charm for me, I started to have fun. When some semblance of discovery returned; whether it was climbing Turo de la Rovira (more on that here) for the best view of a city that I’ve ever seen, sipping natural wines at bars that didn’t even exist in 2012 (more on that here), or wandering through the Picasso museum, hand in hand; the magic of Barcelona returned. Whether it was conversing with the staff at Bar Brutal about the lambs brains we were about to eat, or finding a very decent Paella right by MACBA, or drinking beers at a small dive bar in the Gothic Quarter, the magic returned. Once I gave up on trying to rekindle what had made the city special to me at age 20, and focussed upon what meant more to myself and Carlie more now; the magic returned.

Heading to Barcelona? Read our guide to wine bars in town here!

The lesson is a simple one: chasing nostalgia breeds discontent. In the ensuing years since I last visited, my tastes have changed considerably; for one, I now like decent food, wine and coffee. Another; I don’t enjoy seeing monuments for the sake of it. Finally; I dislike large groups of other tourists - hypocrite, I know. Yet, in the first few days of returning to Barcelona, I fell into the trap of chasing after monuments because ‘You need to do it,’ rather than chasing down obscure foods, decent art, and trying to avoid tourist traps.

In the years since I last visited Barcelona, the city has voted in favour of succession from Spain, the eurozone has faced collapse, and youth unemployment in Catalonia has skyrocketed. In the time since I last visited, the amount of tourists received by Barcelona each year has nearly doubled and wage inequality in Spain has worsened. Yet, for all that instability, the city has retained the beauty that held such sway for me. In the quiet moments wandering suburbs that I didn’t reach last time, such as Vila de Gracia, Sant Marti and El Raval. Watching the sun set over the city from a viewpoint that I didn’t have to pay for; watching the city turned dappled orange as the sun was eclipsed by the mountains to the east. Walking by the sea at Barcelonetta with Carlie, both dreadfully dehydrated but still able to laugh at the excess of the mega-yachts in the harbour. Wandering alleyways to find a market that supposedly had the best pork in town (the stall was closed), or drinking a house red in a small tapas bar where nobody spoke English or Spanish. These things were beautiful, noteworthy and why I travel. Why I continue to travel, despite reasons not to (buying a house, working towards some form of career development).

Spain

Leaving Barcelona this time, I didn’t feel that same sense of loss as in 2012. After 8 years, several countries and continents in between, I left feeling satisfied. Barcelona was no longer my favourite city on earth. Why? I’m not sure. The city is beautiful, beguiling and intriguing all at once; that hans’t changed. Yet, the same things that I had loved about it the first time were illusions; conjured up by youthful naivety, and a winter so horrific that I was the only tourist at most attractions. This time, I left driving north towards Occitanie, France, not catching a red eye flight to Rome. This time I left, not looking backwards, already grasping at nostalgia for a place that probably didn’t exist, but forwards, ready for something new, something noteworthy, something unknown. I left ready to move. Ready to find something new to love.